


By Honor Bound

by SerenLyall



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dubious Consent, F/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:29:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SerenLyall/pseuds/SerenLyall
Summary: When a trade deal goes south, it is up to Chakotay to rescue the away team.





	By Honor Bound

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for Talsi's J/C Cutthroat Competition Round 3, Group Beta.
> 
> Massively huge thanks to Helen8462 and killermanatee for their amazing beta work. This fic wouldn't be nearly as good without their awesome help.
> 
> Please note the warnings. It's pretty mild/not graphic (especially by my standards), but it is there.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

By Honor Bound

“Welcome,” Magister Eizen says grandly, spreading his arms to either side. “Welcome,” he says again, “to the grand palace of Arkaan!”

The palace is beautiful. Gardens sprawl out before them to either side of the cobbled walkway, edged in flowering hedges and filled with the spray of fountains and carven statues. And before them, rising out of the green, is the palace itself. With gleaming white walls and a thousand mullioned windows it shines like a diamond in the sun, beaming down from the sapphire blue sky. Its roof is arched and gabled, with gargoyles and angels and beasts of the field at every corner, looking down and guarding each entrance.

“It’s beautiful,” Kathryn says to Magister Eizen. “We are deeply honored to be here.”

The Arkaanian people are humanoid, and in fact could pass as humans, but for the pronounced ridge dominating their brow, the thick, webbed flesh of their necks, and the talons that replace fingernails.

To Kathryn, they look demonic.

“Come, come,” Magister Eizen says to them, and to the entourage of Arkaanians behind them. “There is a welcome feast prepared in your honor.”

Kathryn, Harry Kim, Samantha Wildman, and Jeremy Morback follow him down the walkway and up a set of broad, white steps to the grand front doors of the palace. The doors are carved with vines and flowers, and with beasts that look like lions and wolves and dragons. The handles are brass, and gleam dully in the sunlight.

The entrance hall is even more beautiful than the outside. The ceiling stands nearly two hundred feet high, and is painted with a variety of brightly colored scenes—scenes of angels and demons, of animal and architecture. From the ceiling hangs two massive chandeliers of white gold and glittering diamond, shedding cold, white light across the marble floor and the grand staircase, lined with soft red carpet, that stands across the hall from the doors.

“Come, come,” Magister Eizen says again, and leads them down a hall adjacent to the staircase. It is hung with paintings and tapestries, and the floor is gold-whorled marble.

“How old is this palace?” Kathryn asks Magister Eizen.

“Nearly two thousand years, according to our records,” he replies. “It is, of course, far from the original palace that was built here, as each monarch makes additions or replacements.”

“Still,” Kathryn says, “to have stood for that long—it’s incredible.”

“Thank you,” Magister Eizen says, and he smiles in earnest.

The banquet hall he finally leads them to is as ornate and opulent as the rest of the palace. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling, made of the same white-gold as those in the entrance hall, but these are hung with sapphires rather than diamonds, turning the light soft blue. The ceiling is painted a bright, happy cerulean, with white gold inlaid in whirling patterns across it. The banquet table is long and made of what looks like cedar or oak, with a brilliantly blue cloth laid over it. The dishes are pale porcelain lined with gold, and the cutlery shines in the light from the chandeliers.

They sit, Kathryn beside Magister Eizen, Samantha Wildman beside her, Harry and Jeremy Morbak across from them, and the first course of the banquet is brought out: a soup made from something that tastes like hazelnut.

Talk quickly turns to trade.

“You are the first extraterrestrials we have ever had the honor of meeting,” Magister Eizen says. “We have long believed life must surely exist elsewhere in the galaxy, but never have we had the proof—until now.”

“It is not in our custom to reveal ourselves to those who have not yet achieved interstellar travel,” Kathryn confesses, “but our need was great.”

She does not say that they were less than a day away from running out of power when they spotted the small planet orbiting a white dwarf two light years away. She does not say that her ship is even now operating on minimal power. She does not say that, if the trade agreement falls through, they will be dead in the water.

“Ah yes,” Magister Eizen says. “The dilithium.”

Kathryn smiles. “Yes. The dilithium.”

“And what are you willing to trade for our dilithium?” Magister Eizen asks.

“Let us not talk of business now, Magister,” Samantha says, cutting in smoothly. She looks at her captain for confirmation. She smiles and nods, and Samantha continues, “Now is a time for celebration and of meeting, not of business. Let us save such talk for the morning.”

“Of course, of course,” Magister Eizen says quickly—too quickly, Kathryn thinks. He smiles, but the smile is forced. “Let us enjoy this feast, and speak of trade in the morning.”

~xXx~

“We are very intrigued by your technology,” Magister Eizen says at the head of the conference table. “If you would be willing to—”

“No,” Kathryn says curtly. “We will not exchange technology for dilithium. Period.”

“What about just the blueprints. Surely—”

“No,” Kathryn says, cutting the Magister off again. “No technological trade will happen. And that is final. Understood?”

Magister Eizen smiled a greasy smile. “Of course. Perhaps we can make some other arrangement then.”

~xXx~

 _“Dilithium received,”_ comes the confirmation. Everyone on the bridge breathes a sigh of relief.

“Well done,” Chakotay says from his command chair. “Let’s get it to B’Elanna.”

“Sir, we’re receiving a message from the surface of the planet,” says Ayala from Ops.

“Onscreen.”

The captain’s face fills the viewscreen. She is smiling.

“Did you receive the dilithium shipment?” she asks.

“Yes,” Chakotay replies. “Thanks to you.”

“It was a team effort,” the captain says. She hesitates, then says, “The Arkaanian Magister has asked that me and my team remain for one more night while the last of the transfers take place. I agreed.”

Chakotay frowns. “Do you think that’s wise,” he says.

The captain shrugs. “They are painstaking in their trade deals. I’ve gathered that much at least. I agreed.”

“Understood,” Chakotay says, though he sounds wary.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” the captain says.

Chakotay forces a smile to cover the unease he feels in his chest. “See you in the morning.”

~xXx~

Kathryn wakes to the sound her room door opening. She sits up in bed, reaching for the light—the night is moonless, and the blinds are drawn against the garden’s artificial lighting—only to feel a sudden pain in her shoulder.

She cries out, warmth flooding from the epicenter of the ache, and she reaches for it. A dart comes away in her hand.

Staggering, she half-scrambles, half-falls out of bed. The floor is cold against her bare feet, and for half a second it is enough of a shock to straighten her clamouring thoughts. She looks up to see two men coming toward her, guns lifted and aimed at her.

She charges them, and tackles the first to the ground. He lands beneath her with a grunt and a rush of air from his lungs. There is a struggle as Kathryn fights him for his gun, fingers fumbling and half-numb, vision sliding precariously in and out of focus. She gets her hands around it, wrenches it free of his grip, and turns it on him.

She fires.

A dart explodes out from the muzzle and buries itself into the side of his head. The man’s eyes roll back and he collapses limp beneath her.

Hands, hard and cruel, fasten around her neck, dragging her back. Kathryn chokes and lashes out behind her, digging her nails into the soft flesh of the man’s inner wrists. He cries out and releases her, coughing and gagging, to land on her knees.

The world swoops sickeningly around her.

“What the hell did you put in that thing?” she asks, and tries to stand. She makes it halfway before falling to her knees.

“Enough sedative to put down a man twice your size,” the man says. She blinks furiously, trying to bring him into focus—and fails. “Go to sleep now, little captain.”

Kathryn falls to her hands, only for her arms to give out beneath her. She lands ungracefully on her face, tries again to rise, but fails.

The last thing she knows is a strong grip fastening around her waist, and then the air opens around her as she is lifted.

Then there is only darkness.

~xXx~

“Hail them again,” Chakotay orders.

“No response,” Ayala says.

“Dammit, Kathryn,” Chakotay murmurs to the air. “I knew this was a bad idea…” He straightens in his chair, grips the armrests, and says, “Hail the Magister. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

~xXx~

Kathryn wakes to more white-bright lights. A sharp pain arrows through her skull and she groans, lifting a hand to press against her temple. “Ow,” she groans, and sits up slowly. Her stomach lurches, and for a second she thinks she is going to vomit—then it settles, and she can breathe normally once more.

She looks around.

She is in a concrete cell with a drain at the center of the floor. A barred, iron door sits in the wall facing her, a narrow window at forehead height looking out into a long hallway dimly lit with yellow lights. Another door sits in the wall across the corridor from her, a long bolt and a blinking keypad sealing it shut.

Kathryn settles back down from her tiptoes and takes a turn around the cell. Five steps each way. Nerves make it difficult for her to sit.

She remembers a similar cell in prison camp thousands of light years and many years away. She remembers the taste of the blood and urine and feces that had coated the air, the fear that had settled like lead in her stomach.

She feels that lead again. She knows what is coming; she only prays that they will focus their ministrations on her and leave her people in peace.

The first scream—the first terrible, familiar scream—comes not quite an hour later.

“No!” she screams, and throws herself at the door. She pounds her fists on the iron until they are numb, and she screams again in ragged counterpoint to Harry’s from down the hall. “Please,” she begs, soft like rain and tears and damnation.

Footsteps. Kathryn presses her face to the window and calls out. “Please,” she says, “you want me. My men know nothing of interest to you. I’m the one you should be questioning.”

The guard, demonic cruel, laughs in her face. “Oh, you’ll get your turn,” he promises, and hits the barred window with a metal baton. Kathryn jerks back.

The lead in her stomach turns to ice.

~xXx~

“I’m sorry,” Harry cries. “I couldn’t… I mean I just… I couldn’t. Captain, I’m sorry.”

“Shh,” she croons. She crawls across the floor to where the guards dropped Harry after bringing him into the cell, and with gentle hands checks him over. He is blackened with bruises and smeared with blood, his uniform jacket half ripped from his shoulders, his undershirt shredded. “It’s okay, Harry,” Kathryn says, smoothing his sweat-damp hair off of his forehead and gripping his shoulder with reassuring strength.

“But I gave them our codes,” Harry says, pulling away. “Our frequencies. I told them all about our technology. They’ll be able to attack _Voyager_ now. They’re not as advanced as us, but they’re advanced enough to—”

Kathryn lets him go but stays close. “Chakotay and Tuvok will figure it out,” Kathryn reassures him. “And Tom is at the helm. I’ve never seen a weapon he couldn’t out-fly.”

Harry’s shoulders slump, and when he speaks, he sounds wistful and sad. “He’s always so cocky…” He trails off.

“He is,” Kathryn says. “But he has a reason to be. Don’t you ever tell him I said that, though.”

Harry laughs weakly—but he does laugh. “Don’t worry,” he says, looking up at Kathryn with dark eyes. “I won’t. He’d be absolutely insufferable then.”

He doesn’t say he’s afraid that they won’t make it back to _Voyager_ —that they won’t make it home. He doesn’t say he’s afraid that he will never see his best friend again. He doesn’t say he’s afraid that they’re going to die here in this prison.

This time, when Kathryn reaches out to grip his shoulder, Harry does not pull away.

“It’s going to be okay, Harry,” she murmurs, squeezing his shoulder tightly. “We’re going to make it out of this.”

“How can you be so sure, Captain?” Harry asks, voice breaking.

“I’ve been through worse,” Kathryn says. “I made it out then, and we’re going to make it out again. You just have to have a little bit of faith.”

“I think they beat all the faith out of me,” Harry whispers, words hitching around his unshed tears.

“Oh, Harry,” Kathryn murmurs, and tentatively draws him close. Harry stiffens, but then relaxes into her side. “I don’t believe that.”

“Do you still have faith?” Harry asks.

“I have faith in Chakotay,” Kathryn says. “And in Tom. And B’Elanna. And The Doctor. And everyone else on _Voyager_.”

“That’s not faith in escaping.”

“No,” Kathryn says. “That’s faith in rescue.”

“I’m not sure I have that anymore either,” Harry admits.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to have enough faith for the both of us,” Kathryn says and, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, holds him tight.

~xXx~

“Commander,” Ayala says from Ops, “the satellite network seems to be charging up.”

Chakotay stands from his command chair and turns to face Ayala. “What does that mean?” he asks.

“I’m not sure, sir,” Ayala replies. “Frequencies indicate weaponry of some sort, but this technology is too alien to be certain.”

“Evasive maneuvers,” Chakotay snaps.

Light lances across the viewscreen, momentarily blinding Chakotay, and he staggers as the deck beneath his feet gives a great lurch, a concussive _thud-wham_ shuddering through _Voyager_ ’s bones.

Blinking furiously against the halos of light dancing across his vision, Chakotay snaps, “Report.”

“The satellite system discharged a photonic weapon against us,” Ayala says. “They targeted our propulsion systems.”

“And?” Chakotay asks.

“Direct hit to port nacelle,” Ayala says. “Warp core is offline.”

“Tuvok,” Chakotay says, turning to face Tactical. “Report.”

“I am targeting the nearest satellite,” Tuvok says calmly. A second later he says, “Direct hit. The satellite has been destroyed.”

Another beam of light lances across the viewscreen. Chakotay curses quietly, lifting a hand to press against his stinging and watering eyes. “I thought we destroyed it,” he says, blinking again against the aftershocks of the bright light.

“Another satellite moved into position and fired,” Tuvok replies from Tactical.

“Three more satellites are moving into position,” Ayala reports. “They’re charging weapons.”

 _Voyager_ rolls, circling the satellites, forcing them to turn to keep the ship in their sights.

“Destroy them.”

The hum of _Voyager_ ’s weapons charging and firing spirits through the bridge. On the viewscreen two explosions blossom against the darkness.

“Direct hit,” Tuvok announces. “Two satellites destroyed.”

Two more hits strike _Voyager_ mere seconds apart. Chakotay stumbles again as the deck bucks, and there comes the shearing groan of metal bulkheads straining.

“Damage to decks three and four,” Ayala reports. “Primary phasers are offline.”

“Sir,” Tom calls from the con, “we have five more satellites moving in.”

“Get us out of here, Tom,” Chakotay orders.

“Yes, sir.”

The thrum of _Voyager_ ’s propulsion system engaging sings through the decks, and a second later she is moving. The satellites fire three more shots at her, but Tom, now in his element, dodges all three with an artful roll. The satellites, bound in orbit, fall far behind.

“Now what?” Ayala asks, as Tom brings _Voyager_ to a slow standstill on the other side of the nearest rocky, inhospitable planet.

“Now we perform repairs,” Chakotay says. “And we figure out a way to get back down there and find the away team.”

~xXx~

The captain’s screams are agony to hear. Samantha Wildman curls into the small cot in the corner of her cell and presses her hands to her ears. It does not help.

 _Please, God,_ she prays. _Let it stop._

If he hears her, fifty thousand lightyears from Earth, God does not answer her. The captain’s screams continue, growing higher and more frantic, more pained, and Samantha’s head aches, from the sounds of her captain’s torture and from her tears.

Finally— _finally_ —it stops. Samantha sits up on her cot, and stares out through the bars at the front of her cell. There is a long moment of silence—then footsteps, and the sound of something being dragged. Samantha stands, and crosses to the bars, presses her face against the cold iron.

Two guards appear. Between them they drag her captain.

She is unconscious, Samantha guesses. Her head lolls forward, and she does nothing to stop her knees from dragging along the floor. Her uniform is in tatters, revealing long, coiling burns and weeping cuts.

“Bastards,” Samantha cries, punching a fist against the nearest bar. “Why are you doing this to us?”

The guards ignore her, and drag her captain past her cell.

After a few seconds there is the clatter of a key being inserted into a lock, then the clang of an iron door being opened. There is a _thud_ , and then the door closes. Samantha presses herself closer, tries to see around the wall of her cell—tries to catch even a glimpse of her captain.

It is useless. She sees nothing but the hall, and the guards’ retreating backs.

“Bastards,” she screams again. Again, they ignore her.

~xXx~

“Sir.” The voice is tentative and uncertain, and Chakotay looks over his shoulder half expecting to see a young Harry Kim standing behind him. It is not Harry, but rather a crewman Chakotay recalls seeing on occasion in the hallway. He searches for a moment, fighting the distractions pressing in on his mind—it has been five days and all his thoughts are centered on finding and rescuing the away team—and finds the young man’s name.

“Lieutenant Offscore,” Chakotay says with a smile. “What can I do for you?”

The young lieutenant creeps up to Chakotay’s table, and offers him a padd. Chakotay accepts it and, turning back toward his sandwich and the table, takes a glance at what is on the screen. He frowns, uncertain of what he is looking at.

“It’s calculations on the system’s sun,” Lieutenant Offscore says. “I believe that, if we time it correctly, we can get a shuttle past the planet’s satellite system.”

“How?” Chakotay asks.

“Using solar flares. They have the technology to protect their planet, but it has one flaw—it’s susceptible to solar flares. With each major flare, the system goes offline for three point two seconds. Or it should, according to my calculations. That should be just enough to get one, or maybe even two or three, shuttles past.”

Chakotay glances over the calculations. They seem accurate.

“Well done, Lieutenant,” Chakotay says, and offers the young man a smile. “Let me recycle this, and then you and I will go find Lieutenant Commander Tuvok. I’m sure he’ll be just as fascinated as I am with your findings.”

~xXx~

They take the base with gunfire and blood.

The first shuttle touches down with the hum of stabilizers and the groan of landing struts, the spit of decompressing air, the haze and storm of dust billowing up from the hard-packed dirt of the base’s drill field. The hiss of the shuttle’s door opening preludes the wave of Starfleeters that pour forth, dressed in yellow and red and blue, all armed with phaser rifles and desperation enough to kill.

There is fire from the walls of the compound as those on sentry duty realize what is happening. Four Starfleet officers die, spurting blood and screaming in pain, before the walls are taken—but taken they are, three by Tuvok and his men, the fourth by Tom, airborne again as soon as the last of the Starfleeters had emerged from his shuttle. There is fire, and the shrieks of men burning—and then there is silence, but for the flames and the smoke.

They take the base building by building, while above them Tom Paris flies circles around the ground-to-air defense systems. First the barracks, where they find two dozen soldiers still asleep, the rest only half-dressed and still bleary-eyed despite the adrenaline.

“Get down,” Tuvok orders, at the head of the Starfleet force. They pour into the large room, shoving their way between bunks, pushing soldiers onto the ground and pulling them from their beds. “Hands on your head.”

They leave the soldiers half-naked and shivering in the barracks common room, half a dozen Starfleet security officers left behind to guard them. “If they try anything,” Tuvok orders, “shoot them.”

They clear the mess hall next, then the armory. They find two cooks and seven unarmed soldiers in the mess hall’s kitchen, and nine soldiers frantically trying to find weapons in the armory. They order personnel in the kitchens to the ground; the soldiers in the armory they shoot. The soldiers shoot back. Tuvok takes a bullet to the shoulder, and one of his officers dies with a hole in his chest, before the last of the soldiers falls. But fall he does, and he does not rise again.

“The base is ours,” Tuvok says into his combadge.

“And the captain?” comes Chakotay’s voice in reply. “Harry, Samantha, and Jeremy?”

“We’re looking for them now,” Tuvok promises.

But they do not find them.

Instead, they find the entrance to the prison complex in the basement of the central building, which housed the offices and administration of the base. The prison is wide and deep, filled with cell upon cell.

“Two women,” they say when they find prisoners. “Two women and two men, not from this world, with smooth foreheads and round necks like us. Have you seen them?”

The prisoners shake their heads, and beg to be released.

“We will look into your crimes,” Tuvok promises each one.

“There is no crime,” they hear, again and again. “Only that we dissented from the Magister and his puppet king.”

“Do you know where the women and the men are?” they ask.

“No,” the prisoners say. And, “We have not seen them for many days.”

But still they search.

They search deeper, and deeper still, until they are in the very depths of the prison, where water runs down the walls and vermin  skitter away from their lights. But still, there is no Kathryn, no Samantha, no Harry, no Jeremy.

“You’re sure this is where the last signals from their combadges came from?” Chakotay asks Tuvok, when he resignedly calls the commander to report their findings.

“Yes,” Tuvok replies. “There was no mistaking it; this is the only building in a hundred mile radius. This must be where the signal was emanated.”

Chakotay curses, is silent, then curses again. “And you’re sure they’re not there?”

“As certain as I can be,” Tuvok says.

“Fine,” Chakotay says. He sounds broken. “Hold your position there,” Chakotay orders. “The next viable solar flare isn’t for another three days.”

“Understood,” Tuvok says, and ends the call.

~xXx~

When at last the transport vehicle grinds to a halt, and the door is opened to a bright afternoon, Kathryn has no idea where they are. She long ago lost track of the twists and turns the vehicle had made; they had been traveling for nearly four hours, if her internal clock hasn’t failed her.

“Out,” their guards order. The first one grabs Harry, who is nearest to the door, and drags him forward, dropping him on the hard ground as soon he is free. “Come on,” he snaps, and draws the baton hanging on his belt. “Now!”

Kathryn clambers out, then turns back to grab Samantha’s arm. She hobbles, white as a ghost, mouth a thin, pained line, and hops ungracefully down from the vehicle. She groans in pain, and her face pales even more as her leg is jostled. Kathryn imagines she can hear the broken ends of the bone—which had ripped through Samantha’s skin, leaving a jagged hole in her shin—grinding. Behind her, Jeremy holds her other hand, and climbs carefully out while never once letting go.

Jeremy is tall with dark hair and dark skin, eyes a pale amber. He is a security officer aboard _Voyager_ —a profession detailed in his broad shoulders and rippling muscles. He is iron and stone, immovable, impenetrable. Only the fading bruises on his face and a slight limp shows he is anything but invincible.

“Let’s go,” the guard orders, and flicks open his baton. The threat is silent but very real.

“Come on,” Kathryn murmurs to Samantha. “You can do this.”

They are slow—slower than the guards want. Their leader strikes Kathryn across the shoulders with his baton, sending her staggering. A minute later, after yelling at all four of them—Harry is behind, shadowing and shielding Samantha from the guard’s blows—he smashes his baton over Jeremy’s head. Jeremy nearly falls, only Harry’s grabbing hand keeping him from landing on his knees.

“We’re going as fast as we can,” Kathryn snaps, whirling on the guard. “If you bastards hadn’t broken Samantha’s leg so badly, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

That earns her another strike from the baton, this time across her cheek. She lands on the ground hard, a grunt of pain ripping free of her lips.

“Get up,” the guard growls, and Kathryn carefully picks herself up, knowing that if she doesn’t she will earn a kick. “Now move.”

There is a gate before them, constructed from steel and wood. A phrase written in the native tongue arches overhead, staring down at all who dare enter. Kathryn wonders what it says. She suspects it is nothing good. As they near the gate, the left-hand door opens. They pass through, the arching lintel and its message momentarily casting them in shadow.

There are more guards standing inside, dressed in grey and red uniforms. They all carry batons and guns with flared muzzles that Kathryn suspects are stun weapons. Their faces are hard and cold, and Kathryn fights back the shudder that threatens to crawl up her spine; she knows the eyes of cruel men.

“This group is from the Magister’s prison,” the lead guard escorting them says.

“They don’t look like much,” one of the guards in grey and red says.

“They’re a nuisance,” one of the other guards in the Starfleeter’s escort says. “They might not look like much, but they’re a pain in the ass.”

The guards all laugh. “We’ll teach them good,” one of them calls.

Kathryn, Harry, Samantha, and Jeremy are handed off to the grey-and-red guards, who shepherd them toward a small building nearby the gate. The door opens, and the four of them are shoved inside.

There are three wide, tiled stalls lining the wall, with shower heads hanging from the ceiling. Weak, flickering lights lend themselves to the uneasy, mildewed atmosphere that fills the room. It smells like mold and hair and harsh lye soap inside, and Kathryn breathes through her mouth to keep from gagging.

“Strip,” the leader of their new guards orders. “All the way. If you don’t, one of my guards will do it.”

They peel off their tattered, burned, and bloody uniforms with slow hands. Harry and Jeremy turn away to give Kathryn and Samantha some privacy. The guards do not afford them such a luxury. They call and whistle as Kathryn helps Samantha pull off her pants, Samantha groaning and whimpering when the cloth catches on the wound on her shin.

“It’s okay,” Kathryn murmurs, catching hold of Samantha’s underwear after she pulls it down over her thighs. “We’ll get through this.”

Once they all are naked, the guards direct them to stand in the nearest stall, underneath the shower heads. One of the guards pulls a lever, and the water turns on. It smells old and stale, but for the sharp sting of antiseptic in it, and is as cold as ice.

“Scrub,” the same guard orders, and rough washcloths are thrown at them. “Head to toe.”

Samantha balances on one foot, her right hand planted against the tiled wall. “I can’t—” she begins.

“Then one of us will do it for you,” the lead guard says, and turns and motions toward one of his men. The guard grins and starts forward.

“No,” Kathryn says, stepping in front of him. She is small, and made smaller still by her hair plastered against her head, but she glares at the guard all the same. There is fire in her eyes. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Fine,” the lead guard says, sounding bored. “But make it quick. We won’t give you any extra help.”

“Thank you,” Samantha whispers to Kathryn when she turns and, picking up the washcloth, starts scrubbing her hale leg.

Five minutes later, the guards turn the water off. “Step out,” the leader orders, and they comply, Kathryn once more supporting Samantha.

They’re led down a long hall to a room filled with storage cabinets. Grey, threadbare shirts, pants, underwear, and shoes are pulled from the plastic bins, and tossed to them. They are ordered to dress.

After that, they are taken outside and led around a large, fenced-in yard. It is empty, but for a hundred thousand footprints pressed into the hard, tan dirt. It looks old, and sad, and full of pain and despair. It makes Kathryn’s skin crawl.

They are taken to a long, low-ceilinged building made of wood. The door creaks when it is opened.

“You two,” one of the four guards escorting them says, poking his baton in Samantha’s and Jeremy’s backs. “In here.”

“Wait,” Kathryn says, gripping Samantha’s hand and turning to face the guards. “You can’t split us up.”

The guard smiles and laughs. “We can do whatever the hell we want.”

Another of the guards approaches. Kathryn moves back, pushing Samantha behind her. “Please,” she says, begs, pleads.

The guard wrenches Samantha’s wrist from her grip, and pushes the other woman toward the building’s door. “Go on,” he says. “Or you’ll taste my baton.”

Jeremy moves quickly, grabbing Samantha before she can topple over, supporting her with a hand beneath her elbow. “It’s okay,” he says, to Samantha, to Kathryn, to the guards. “I’ve got her.”

Kathryn watches them disappear into the building with fire in her veins. No _,_ she thinks. I can’t protect them now.

God, she prays, to the being she has never believed in, if you can hear me, protect them. Please.

The four guards move around Kathryn and Harry, and shove them onward. “Move,” they order, and Kathryn and Harry grudgingly obey. Kathryn’s eye is swelling shut from the blow to the face, and her face throbs.

“It’ll be okay,” Harry whispers to her. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Silence,” one of the guards snaps.

Kathryn reaches for Harry’s hand, and squeezes it gently. He squeezes back.

They are taken to another long, low building made of wood, but this one is surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. There is a gate with a magnetic lock, and the leader of the guards swipes a card across the reader. The gate opens with a _snick_.

“Inside,” they’re ordered, and then are followed through.

“This will be your bunk,” the leader tells them, opening the door to the wooden building. “You have the rest of the day off, but tomorrow morning you go to work with the rest. Understand?”

“Yes,” Kathryn says.

“Good,” the leader says, and then leaves with the rest of the guards.

“What now?” Harry asks, once they’re gone.

Kathryn looks around the building, taking in the high stacks of beds reaching all the way to the ceiling, the threadbare and stained blankets on each, the nauseating smell of bodily waste. There are washed-out yellow lights hanging from the ceiling, making as many shadows as lit spaces.

“Now we sit tight,” Kathryn says. “We have to survive until _Voyager_ comes for us.”

“You still think they’re coming?” Harry asks.

Kathryn turns and looks at him. “I have to.”

~xXx~

They find the remnants of their combadges in a filing cabinet down in the basement of the central building, along with their phasers and the one tricorder they had brought with them. Crewman Biddle brings them to Tuvok, and Tuvok is silent for a long moment. Finally he says, “At least we know for certain they were here.”

~xXx~

It is Tom who finds the interrogation records, buried deep in the compound’s computers. He watches the first two minutes of the captain’s, then goes to find Tuvok.

“You need to see this,” he says, bending close to Tuvok’s ear so that none of the others arrayed around the table in the large meeting room can hear him. “Now,” he adds, when Tuvok frowns and opens his mouth.

Instead of protesting like Tom fears, Tuvok apologizes to the others and stands. It is only once they are out of the room, the door shut firmly behind them, that Tuvok demands, “What is so important that you must interrupt a strategy meeting?”

“I found files of the captain’s interrogation,” Tom says quietly.

If Tom did not know Tuvok better, he would say that the Vulcan goes pale. But all Tuvok does is nod once, sharp and decisive, and says, “Show me.”

Tom shows him.

~xXx~

Chakotay’s office lies in ruins. His desk is swept clean, the pictures and ornaments that usually sit on its stable surface lying  scattered and broken on the floor. The interface of one of the display screens mounted on the wall is cracked, a shattered vase lying on the floor below it. The wooden figurine of a wolf, which usually stands in the place of honor on the shelf above and behind his desk, lies in shards and splinters beneath the viewport. His chair lies upended against the far wall.

Beside him, on the computer tilted onto its side and its screen fractured, the file of Kathryn’s interrogation continues to play.

~xXx~

“I got word from Jeremy,” Harry says, sitting down next to Kathryn at the long trestle table. The person sitting beside her grumbles at being shoved over, but quiets when Harry glares at him. No one is willing to risk a fight—not when there are guards patrolling the room, looking for anyone daring to make a commotion.

“What did he say?” Kathryn asks, looking up from her thin gruel. It looks like glue and tastes little better, but it is food, and Kathryn is hungry from the long morning’s work.

“That Samantha’s not doing well,” Harry says. “She’s delirious with fever, and he’s afraid she’s going to die soon if she doesn’t get an antibiotic.”

“Dammit,” Kathryn curses, and clenches her fingers into tight fists. “He’s tried to get her in to see the camp doctor?”

“She’s been rejected—twice,” Harry says.

Kathryn curses again. “Why are they rejecting her? It’s clear she needs medical attention.”

“Probably because she’s one of us,” Harry says. “You’ve seen how the guards single us out.”

Kathryn grits her teeth, but nods. “You’re probably right,” she says. “Dammit,” she says again, and fights the urge to hit the table with her fist.

“What are we going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Kathryn says. “But I’ll figure something out.” Silently she adds, _I have to._ It is her duty as captain. But more than that, Kathryn decides, she won’t let Naomi grow up without a mother.

 _Whatever I have to do,_ _I’ll do it._

~xXx~

“Your presence is unexpected,” Tuvok says, staring long and hard at Chakotay. He can tell that the Vulcan is displeased, though Tuvok respects him too much to say so outright.

“I came because we need to get Kathryn and the others out,” Chakotay says, calmly and evenly. “And I have an idea.”

“Is this plan one born of fact or desperation?” Tuvok asks, seeing the grim determination in Chakotay’s eyes.

“Fact,” Chakotay says. “And maybe a little bit of desperation. But I think it will work.”

“Then tell me.”

~xXx~

“You’re going to be okay, Samantha,” Kathryn promises. She kneels by Samantha’s bedside, trying to ignore the smell and taste of infection clinging to the air.

Samantha is pale and sweating beneath the thin blanket pulled up to her shoulders. She reaches out tentatively, just barely brushing a fingertip against Kathryn’s cheek. “Captain,” she croaks, and takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “If I don’t make it, promise—” She coughs, and the sound is dry and hoarse, cracked with the heat of the fever wracking her body. “Promise me you’ll look after Naomi.”

Kathryn shakes her head. “You’re going to be just fine,” she promises. “I’m going to get you help.”

Samantha doesn’t believe her. Kathryn can see it in her eyes.

~xXx~

Kathryn waits by the fence in view of the gate, watching as the guards come and go, clenching her fingers into fists so tightly she digs bloody crescents into her palms. She is nervous, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet as a way to burn off—or at least channel—the anxiety spiriting through flesh and muscle and bone.

There. The guard she was waiting for.

She sidles forward, along the fence, toward where the guard stands in loose attention. His eyes scan over the yard filled with prisoners, arms crossed loosely over his chest.

“Hi,” Kathryn says, coming to a halt in front of him.

“Well hi there,” the guard says. He grins, showing his teeth—pointed, like a predator’s.

Kathryn leans forward, hooking two fingers through a link in the fence. She ignores the sweat gathering on the back of her neck, the pit of disgust forming in her belly.

“You said, that first night, that you could get me an extra blanket, or a pillow, or a treat.”

“If you’re willing to pay the price for it, yeah,” the guard says, grin widening.

“What about medicine?” Kathryn asks.

The guard pauses, thinking. But then he nods. “Yeah, I think I could do that.”

Kathryn smiles at him. “Then I’m willing to pay the price.”

“One night for one dose of medicine?”

Kathryn nods.

“Okay then,” the guard says, and with a flick of his card opens the gate. “Come on through.”

Kathryn does.

~xXx~

“I have heard a great deal about you, Commander,” Magister Eizen says. He motions for the guards standing to either side of him to unclasp the binders holding Chakotay’s wrists together, then reaches out and grasps Chakotay’s right hand in both of his, covering his knuckles with a large, soft palm.

“All good, I hope,” Chakotay jokes with an easy smile.

“Only the best,” Magister Eizen replies. “I must ask, though, why are you here? I would have thought that your people would know better than to come here—especially alone, and unarmed? You broke our trade agreement, and you took forcible control of one of our bases. I would have thought it obvious that you are no longer welcome.” His smile, however, remains firmly in place.

“I thought it worth the risk. I’ve come searching for my captain,” Chakotay says. “According to her, you were one of the last people she spoke with. I thought perhaps you might know what became of her.”

Magister Eizen smiles, thick and sweet like poisoned honey. “I’m afraid I do not know,” he says. “I spoke with her before she retired for the evening, making plans for breakfast the next day. The next morning, however, she never arrived.”

“Surely you made an inquiry into her disappearance?” Chakotay asks.

“As I told you when you asked me this before, of course we did,” Magister Eizen replies. “She hid her trail well when she ran, unfortunately.”

“So you think she left of her own accord?”

“What else might have happened?”

“We believe she was kidnapped.”

Magister Eizen gasps. It is theatrical and false, and Chakotay wonders if Eizen thinks he believes it is true. “Kidnapped?” he says, in as dramatic a tone as his gasp. “No, surely not. Our palace’s defenses would never allow kidnappers onto the grounds.”

“Then it must have been your own men,” Chakotay says.

Magister Eizen’s face darkens. “Are you accusing us of harming one of our own guests?”

“Yes,” Chakotay says flatly. “I am.”

“How dare you?” Magister Eizen gasps. “Our laws of hospitality clearly dictate—”

“And yet we have proof that our people were held and tortured by yours,” Chakotay cuts in bluntly.

“You seem very loyal to your captain,” Magister Eizen says. A smile—a true smile, not the farce of one he had been wearing for Chakotay’s behalf, ever since Chakotay had been shown into his office—creeps up his lips.

“I am,” Chakotay replies, calm and steady.

Magister Eizen’s smile is as venomous as a viper’s when he says, “Please, Commander, spend the night with us. It is already very late, and I would hate for you to be lost in the city after dark. Let us host you tonight, as one last gesture of goodwill, and you can return to your people in the morning. I know that you have set up camp in the Ocatack Base.” His smile is sickly sweet.

Chakotay smiles, hating this game of politics. “Thank you, Magister. I accept your offer.”

“Good,” Magister Eizen says. “Very good.” His smile drips poison as he offers his hand to Chakotay. “Come,” he says. “You must dine with me tonight.”

“I gladly accept. Thank you for your hospitality,” Chakotay says.

“It is my genuine pleasure,” says Magister Eizen, and leads the way out of his office.

~xXx~

“The deal was one night for one dose of medicine!”

“The price has gone up.”

Kathryn digs her nails into her palms. “You fucking bastards,” she hisses.

The guard and his buddy, who is hanging behind him and grinning, laugh. “That’s the idea,” the first guard says. Kathryn didn’t bother to learn his name, either the night before, or the first night he had approached her with his offer.

Kathryn’s entire being screams at her to say No. To tell these smug bastards that the deal is off.

But then she remembers Samantha’s pale face, remembers the taste of infection in the air, remembers Samantha begging her to take care of Naomi. No, Kathryn thinks. I can’t let her die. It’s my duty and my obligation, my penance and my pride.

“Fine,” Kathryn says.

~xXx~

Chakotay wakes, groggy and cotton-headed, like the slow drip of water from a faucet. He groans, long and low, and blinks once, twice, three times against the blurry veil draped over his eyes. Everything aches, and his thoughts move only sluggishly, as if they are caught in tar.

“Good,” says a voice in front of Chakotay. “You’re awake.”

Chakotay looks up, slow and with difficulty. Standing before him is an Arkaanian man with a sharply pronounced forehead bridge and skin blushed a faint red. The man smiles when he sees Chakotay looking at him.

“I am Tozen,” he says. “But you may call me Master.”

Chakotay shakes his head. There is a rattle above him—and for the first time, he realizes that his hands are being held above him. He looks up, to see shackles wrapped around his wrists, and a chain attached to the shackles. The chain, in turn, is looped through a ring in the ceiling.

“When I address you,” Tozen says, “I expect you to reply to me. Understand?”

Chakotay looks down at Tozen, and simply glares.

Tozen lifts a hand. He holds a leather whip, which he lashes out at Chakotay’s chest. The leather bites through his uniform to leave a long welt in its wake, and Chakotay jerks in surprise and pain.

“Understand?” Tozen replies.

“Yes,” Chakotay says.

The whip snaps out again.

“Yes, _Master_ ,” Tozen corrects.

Chakotay grits his teeth. He remembers watching Tozen beating Kathryn unconscious over this particular nuance on the interrogation recordings.

It galls him to call Tozen “Master”, as he so desires. Even that concession grates at Chakotay’s pride. Furthermore, he wishes to spite the man—for Kathryn’s sake, and for Harry’s sake, and Samantha’s, and Jeremy’s. But then, his goal is to find Kathryn and the others, not have himself be beaten half to death over what is, in truth, a nuance.

“Yes, _Master_ ,” Chakotay grinds out.

Tozen grins. “Good man,” he says. “You’re already doing far better than your captain or her pets.”

Chakotay’s teeth grind tighter together. “Her “pets”, as you call them, are valued members of our crew,” he says.

The leather thong snaps out, leaving a third welt across Chakotay’s chest. “You will only speak when spoken to. Understand? You can speak,” he adds, when Chakotay is silent.

Chakotay waits for as long as he dares before saying, “I understand, Master.”

Tozen smiles. “Good. Now that the basic rules are taken care of, we can move on to the more, well, interesting things. First, I want you to tell me about the technology you use to travel the stars.”

This time, Chakotay holds his tongue.

~xXx~

“What’s the news?” Kathryn asks Harry, turning as he plops his bowl of gruel down beside hers.

“Some of the guards were harassing Samantha today.” Harry takes a bite, grimaces, and takes another.

“I’m not sure if I should be glad to hear that or furious,” Kathryn says softly.

“I know what you mean,” Harry says.

At least now she is healthy enough to be harrassed—is no longer on death’s doorstep.

“What happened?” Kathryn asks.

“Some new guy stopped it,” Harry says. “Decked the guard doing the harassing.”

Kathryn shakes her head and lets a gloop of gruel fall from her spoon into the bowl. “Didn’t he know any better?”

“Apparently not,” Harry says. “I can’t say I’m too upset though. At least Samantha wasn’t being hassled anymore.”

Kathryn nods. “There is that. Still—he’ll probably be transferred to our block after that stunt. And we don’t need a troublemaker here.”

“You like being the only troublemaker around, Captain?” Harry asks, teasing.

Kathryn shoots him a mock glare. “Maybe I do,” she says, and takes another grueling bite.

“Maybe he can be helpful,” Harry says after a moment of thoughtful chewing.

“Maybe,” Kathryn says. She sighs. “I guess we’ll just have to wait and see who it is.”

~xXx~

Kathryn is only half dozing when the door opens. She is in pain—the men had been particularly rough with her that night, and she was already aching from the two beatings she had received during the day—and though she is exhausted, she cannot quiet the fears in her mind nor the pain in her body enough to let her exhaustion carry her off to sleep.

There are footsteps, and then the thud of something heavy being dropped. Kathryn props herself up on one elbow and looks toward the doorway. She can just make out two guards retreating back through the door—and then the door shuts, cutting off all but the light slinking in through the chinks in the wooden walls.

Slowly, painfully, carefully quietly, Kathryn climbs out of her bed and down to the floor. She checks on Harry, who is sleeping on the bunk beneath hers, and then creeps softly toward the man she had glimpsed on the floor just before the door closed.

It must be the man who had saved Samantha from harassment, Kathryn thinks. She owes it to him to at least get him off the floor.

“Easy,” she says, when the man scrambles up and into a crouch at her approach. “I’m a friend.”

There is a beat of silence. It hangs full and heavy between them, pregnant with an unknown promise, an unseen and unlooked-for hope. Kathryn senses this, and senses the whisper of familiarity about the man now crouched in front of her.

“It’s okay,” Kathryn says, and crouches down so that she is on the same level as him. “I—”

“Kathryn?” the man says.

She knows that voice.

“Chakotay?” Her voice cracks, then breaks. “Chakotay, is that...is that—”

And then the man—and then _Chakotay_ —stands, and crosses to her in two steps. He leans down, drags her to her feet, then crushes her in his arms.

“Dammit,” Chakotay whispers into her hair, clinging to her. “Dammit, Kathryn, I was so afraid…”

“Chakotay,” Kathryn whispers in return. She clutches at him, and at the tattered shirt he wears. Like them, it seems, Chakotay had been given a new set of clothes upon his arrival at the labor camp. “Chakotay, how did you…” She trails off, and lets the silence ask the question for her.

“I had to find you,” he says. “We couldn’t find you, and I had to—I mean, we couldn’t just leave you. Or Harry, or Samantha, or Jeremy.”

“But how?” Kathryn asks.

Chakotay laughs. It is dry and cracked with the memory of pain. “The same way you got here,” he says. “I suspect they’re going to try to use me against you. Or you against me. I’m not sure which they’ll try first. I kind of let it slip that you’re important to me.”

“Important to you?” Kathryn asks. “As in your captain?”

There is a long beat of silence. At last, Chakotay says, “Yes.” But Kathryn knows that is not what he meant.

But she can’t bear to think about that—not now, not with him standing here half-broken in her arms. He is shaking so hard that Kathryn thinks it is a miracle he is still standing.

“Come on,” she says. All of the beds are full, but he can have her bed, Kathryn decides. She’ll be damned if he spends one more second of the night on the hard earth floor of their bunk.

She helps him up onto the second bunk of the stack, and then tugs the threadbare blanket up around his shoulders. She hesitates to leave, though, and for a long moment she simply stands at his side, one hand resting on his shoulder. Everything he didn’t say when she asked him why he had come after her—and everything she couldn’t say now, or ever—wells up between them.

“We have a plan,” Chakotay whispers to the darkness between them. “Tuvok and I—we have a plan. We’re getting you out.”

“Good,” Kathryn says. “But tell me about it tomorrow; right now you need to sleep. You’re no good to us half dead.”

“You’re right,” Chakotay says. There is another silence, but it is an expectant silence, and Kathryn waits until Chakotay says softly, “What about you? Where are you sleeping?”

“I’ll be fine,” Kathryn hedges. If he knows she intends to sleep on the floor, she is certain that Chakotay will insist she take the bed.

“Kathryn,” he says, and her name is a dagger on his tongue.

“I’ll be fine,” Kathryn insists.

A beat. Then Chakotay says, “Share with me.”

“What?”

“Share the bed with me. I know it’ll be cramped. But I’m cold, and then you wouldn’t have to sleep on the ground—I assume that’s what you were intending to do?”

“But…”

“But what?” Chakotay asks when Kathryn trails off.

But I’m afraid, Kathryn does not say. Afraid that once I remember the feel of your arms around me, the heat of your body against mine, the warmth of your breath against my neck, I will never be able to return to what we were. Because I am afraid for you, if they find us together; you have already said they know you love me. What if they know I love you too?

“Kathryn,” Chakotay says. “Please.”

“Okay,” she gives in, and climbs up.

Chakotay rolls over with a grunt and a groan. Kathryn asks, “What did they do to you?”

“A lot,” Chakotay whispers in return. “I’d rather not talk about it.”

Kathryn understands that.

She is silent as he wraps his arms around her, silent as she settles against his chest. He is as warm as she remembers, as strong, as stolid. An empty hole in her chest fills in, like a half-forgotten puzzle piece. In that moment, he is everything to her: judge, jury, executioner.

She falls asleep feeling the beat of Chakotay’s heart against her back.

~xXx~

“Ow,” Chakotay says as Kathryn bandages his hands with the torn scraps of her shirt’s sleeves.

“I’m almost done,” Kathryn says, and ties off the last piece. “There. That should help.”

“I’ve done my fair share of hard labor,” Chakotay tells her, glancing over at the guards standing just a few paces away, “but nothing like what we did today.”

Kathryn nods. “It’s hard work.”

Chakotay rubs his raw and blistered hands through the threadbare linen. “Thank you,” he says, looking up at Kathryn.

She smiles in return.

~xXx~

“So how are we getting out?” Kathryn whispers. It is the first time they have been together and alone all day, and Kathryn itches to know the plan.

She lays with her back to Chakotay’s chest, his arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close. There are still too few beds in the bunkhouse for the number of workers, and so Kathryn and Chakotay continue to share. It is an unspoken agreement: here, for this moment in time, when all the rest of the world is in disorder and fear and despair, they are allowed this one comfort. Harry, who has certainly seen his captain climb into the same bed as his commander, has not commented. Kathryn hopes he will continue to exercise his discretion and keep his counsel to himself.

“I brought locator beacons equipped with pattern enhancers,” Chakotay whispers into her neck.

Kathryn frowns. “How? Weren’t you stripped of everything?”

She feels Chakotay nod. “But I smuggled them in in my leg.”

Kathryn thinks she must have misheard. “They’re where?” she asks.

“In my leg,” Chakotay repeats.

Okay, Kathryn thinks. They’re in his leg. “So how do we get them out?”

“We find something sharp.”

“ _That_ is your plan?” she demands, incredulous.

“It’s a good plan,” Chakotay says.

“It’s a stupid plan,” Kathryn retorts.

“Maybe,” Chakotay says, damnably calm. “But it’s going to work.”

Kathryn shakes her head but says, “I hope so.”

~xXx~

“Keep your eyes out for anything sharp,” Chakotay tells the others on the third day.

“What for?” Jeremy asks. He is sitting between Samantha and Harry in the fenced-in free area of the labor camp, and is thrilled to have his commander with them, despite the black eye, split lip, and limp Chakotay sports.

If it wasn’t for Chakotay, Jeremy does not know what would have happened to Samantha. He would have interfered himself, except that he was on the other side of the line of workers digging the trench, and didn’t hear about what was happening until it had happened. Chakotay, thankfully, had been close.

“Never mind what it’s for,” Chakotay says, with a glance toward the guards standing only a dozen feet away. “Just keep your eye out. Get it to me if you can.”

All three of them nod. “No promises,” Harry says. “They keep a close eye on all the tools, and most of the rocks here are sediment, I’ve noticed. They aren’t strong enough to cut anything.”

“Do what you can,” Chakotay says. “But stay safe,” he adds. “The five of us need to stick close.”

All three of them nod again. Chakotay didn’t need to tell them that.

“We will,” Jeremy says, speaking for all of them.

“Good,” Chakotay says, and that is the end of it.

~xXx~

“Where does the captain go every night?” Chakotay asks Harry, who is sitting with his back against the fence. Chakotay stands beside him, arms crossed and expression fixed into a glare at anyone who dares come too close.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t know. But when she comes back she has medicine for Samantha.”

“What exactly happened to Samantha?” Chakotay asks.

“We’re not sure. We were kept separate right up until the very end. When they brought her in her leg was broken, the bone through the skin. It got infected and...well.”

“I see,” Chakotay says, and he does.

“She almost died. If the captain hadn’t figured out a way to get medicine…”

“The camp doctor wouldn’t help?” Chakotay asks.

Harry shakes his head and pushes a pebble through the dirt with his forefinger. “Every time we went in he just said he didn’t want any trouble, and then when we pushed harder that he was out of antibiotics.”

“Damn him,” Chakotay curses.

Harry nods. “But the captain found some, and that’s all that really matters.”

Chakotay looks up at the line of guards standing outside the fence, watching the prisoners mingle. He remembers watching Kathryn approach one of them at the beginning of their free time, and say something to him. Then the guard had opened the door and gestured her through. Half a dozen other soldiers had trailed after them as they walked away.

What did they want? What could Kathryn possibly be doing that would gain her something as precious as antibiotics?

All the options Chakotay can think of make his skin crawl and his stomach knot.

“Commander? Harry?”

Chakotay turns to see Samantha hobbling toward them, her arm held and supported by Jeremy. Her leg is rudimentarily bandaged and splinted with two rotting pieces of wood and the torn up strips of a blanket that was deemed a lost cause. She still can’t put any weight on it, however, and she can only move slowly and with support.

“Hi, Samantha, Jeremy,” Harry says from the dirt.

“Hey,” Jeremy says, smiling.

The two newcomers settle down on the ground beside Harry, Jeremy helping Samantha lower herself with her leg outstretched. She still grunts in pain as her leg is jostled against the ground, but then she is down and comfortable, leaning back against the chain-link fence.

“Do either of you know where the captain goes at night?” Chakotay asks.

Jeremy shakes his head, and Samantha says, “No. Only that she comes in a few minutes after lights out and gives me a pill.”

Chakotay frowns. “I see,” he says, and fears he sees too clearly.

~xXx~

“I got something,” Samantha murmurs to Jeremy when they are standing in line for lunch.

Jeremy turns and looks at her, frowning. “Got what?” he asks.

Samantha glances around to make sure no guards are watching, then quickly lifts her shirt to reveal a small pair of garden shears held in the waistband of her pants. “They had me trimming the bushes outside the commandant’s house,” she says. “I managed to smuggle these out.”

Jeremy grins. “Good job,” he says. “We’d better let Harry know when he swings by our table.” He hesitates while Samantha hides the garden shears once more, then says, “What do you think the commander wants with them?”

Samantha shrugs. “Our plan to get out of here, I hope,” she says.

~xXx~

The guards come for them after lunch.

“Let’s go” the leader growls, and grabs Kathryn’s arrm. “You’re coming with us.”

Kathryn and Chakotay are shepherded away from the rest of prisoners. Harry yells something that Chakotay cannot make out, and tries to push his way over to them. He is hit with a baton, and he falls with a bleeding mouth.

They are brought to the commandant’s house. It is squat but tall, three stories of brick and arched windows. There is a garden out front, and a small path leading from the hard-packed dirt of the compound to the front door. A brass knocker hangs on the door at eye-level.

The door opens as they draw near. More guards stand in the foyer—dark, wooden floorboards and white-washed walls—wearing batons and grim expressions. As they step into the cool interior of the house, the guards circle around them, forming an honor guard.

They are led down into the house’s basement, into a sterile room. There are handcuffs hanging from the ceiling on chains, and there are two drains in the concrete floor. It smells like old blood and pain beneath the acrid scent of bleach.

Their hands are fixed into handcuffs, and then all but four of the guards leave.

Chakotay does not know how long they stand there, hands above their heads, before the door opens again. The commandant steps into the room.

He is tall and thin, the ridge on his brow smaller than most of his kind. His hair is dark and thick, and his eyes are a blue so pale they are almost silver. His mouth is flat and cruel, the edges curled into the faintest smile.

“You will give me information,” the commandant tells them bluntly, “or I will hurt your precious captain.”

Chakotay looks at Kathryn, who shakes her head.

“I won’t tell you anything,” Chakotay says.

The commandant nods at one of the guards. He steps forward and, drawing the baton that hangs at his belt, smashes it across Kathryn’s cheek. She reels with a cry, only the chain and cuffs keeping her upright.

“Now,” the commandant says, “I want you to explain your communication devices. I believe you called them combadges.”

Chakotay looks at Kathryn, who shakes her head again. He swallows hard, fighting the hot, dark knot in his stomach. It is anger, and terror, and horror. Everything in him screams to protect her—to do anything to keep her safe.

Her left eye is already swelling shut beneath the fist of an ugly black bruise. Chakotay wonders if her eye socket is broken.

“Chakotay,” Kathryn says. Her right eye burns. “Don’t.”

Chakotay shudders. He hates himself, and hates the commandant. He shakes his head. “No,” he tells the commandant. “I won’t tell you anything.”

The commandant motions again, and the guard hits Kathryn twice in the stomach. She grunts, doubling over as far as the bindings will let her, and Chakotay watches as she struggles to breathe.

There is a ringing in Chakotay’s ears. He yanks his hands against the cuffs, and hears himself yell. “Bastards!” he shouts. “Cowards.”

The guard turns on him and punches him in the face. Chakotay recoils, but is glad for the pain. If they are beating him, that means they are not beating her.

“Explain your combadges,” the commandant says. “Or we will beat your precious captain.”

“Don’t,” Kathryn says. “We’ve already broken the Prime Directive by coming here. We can’t break it again. We can’t ruin their progress.”

Chakotay grits his teeth and looks at the commandant. “I won’t tell you anything.”

“So be it,” the commandant says, and gestures from the guards to Kathryn. “Just know—it will stop as soon as you start talking.”

Kathryn looks at Chakotay with her one good eye. “Don’t,” she says again—says, begs, pleads.

Chakotay clenches his hands, nails biting into his palms, and nods. “I won’t,” he promises.

And he doesn’t.

~xXx~

“Where are the captain and commander?” Samantha asks. She, Jeremy, and Harry are standing in the exercise yard, huddled together. Samantha is holding onto Jeremy, who is keeping her upright on one leg.

“I don’t know,” Harry replies. “They were taken away after lunch.”

“I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hide the shears,” Samantha murmurs, so quiet that only Jeremy and Harry can hear. “If it’s not tonight, I’m afraid…” She trails off, but it is clear that the other two know what she means.

“They’ll be back,” Jeremy says. “They will be.”

“How do you know that?” Harry asks.

“I don’t,” Jeremy says. “But I have faith.”

Harry shakes his head, but says nothing.

~xXx~

They leave Chakotay and Kathryn alone. Kathryn is bloody and listing, barely able to keep to her feet. She is coughing blood, and half of her face is swollen and bruised.

“Tonight is the night,” Chakotay murmurs to Kathryn. “So when we get back, don’t go off and disappear like you usually do.”

Kathryn nods and says, “I won’t.”

Neither of them say that they don’t know if they will even make it out of this room.

~xXx~

It is almost dark when Kathryn and Chakotay are led out of the commandant’s house and to the exercise yard. Kathryn stumbles and more than once almost loses her balance, but Chakotay sees the set of her chin and the determination in her one good eye. She does not fall.

“We’re almost there,” Chakotay says softly. He hopes Kathryn understands the hidden meaning in that.

She nods, and Chakotay thinks she understands.

~xXx~

“Captain,” Samantha says, clear relief in her voice. “Commander. You’re here.”

Kathryn nods. “We’re sorry we’re late,” she jokes. None of them laugh.

“Let’s do this,” Chakotay says, and sits, stretching out his leg.

“Hold his leg down,” Kathryn orders Jeremy, who complies by gripping Chakotay’s knee and kneeling on his shin. Chakotay’s leg gleams so dark in the dying sunlight his skin is almost red, a sharp contrast to the pale cloth of his pants pushed up to his hip. He grips the dirt of the exercise area until it coats his right hand with fine dust; his left hand is gripped by Samantha, seated by his side.

“Are you sure you should be doing this?” Chakotay asks, looking at her swollen eye and the blood darkening her lips.

“I can see just fine,” Kathryn says.

“Then do it,” he says from between gritted teeth. Kathryn crouches beside him, her body angled to hide the gardening shears she holds from the sight of the guards.

They are crowded on every side by fellow prisoners, who mill about in groups of twos and threes, talking quietly. The air is full of fine grit that stings the eyes and nose and clots on the tongue, making it difficult to swallow and breathe. The guards are only shadows standing on the other side of a sea of legs.

Kathryn reaches down and presses two fingertips into Chakotay’s leg. “Here?” she asks.

“Yes,” Chakotay says, and tightens his grip on Samantha’s hand. “Can’t you feel them?”

Kathryn nods. “Don’t yell,” she orders, and makes the first cut.

Chakotay groans, but he does not scream, even when Kathryn makes a second cut, then a third, each one deeper than the last. Blood runs freely down Chakotay’s thigh and drips to the dirt below him, turning the sand to mud.

“Almost there,” Kathryn murmurs to Chakotay’s gritted teeth and swallowed groans of pain. She makes one final cut, then hands the shears to Samantha, who tucks them under her shirt.

“Now for the worst part,” Chakotay says, and grinds his teeth together.

Kathryn reaches into his leg.

“Don’t turn them on yet,” Kathryn orders, pulling out the first of the locator beacons and dropping it into Samantha’s palm. It is the size of a golf ball cut in half and is covered in red blood, which smears on Samantha’s fair skin. “We don’t know if they’ll notice the frequency, and I’d like to have all of them out and on before risking that.”

“Understood,” Samantha says, and Jeremy and Harry nod.

The second beacon and pattern enhancer goes to Harry, the third to Jeremy. Kathryn is digging for the fourth when she hears the first commotion.

“Out of the way,” a man orders, and then comes the distinct sound of metal striking flesh and bone. There is a cry of pain, and the _thud_ of someone hitting the ground. “I said _move_!” The same man bellows.

There is a scattering of feet. Kathryn looks up, hands painted red with Chakotay’s blood, fingers entrenched in his leg, and sees the guard she had made the first deal with striding straight toward them.

“Shit,” she hisses. Her fingers close around the fourth beacon, and she pulls it forth. She turns it on with a press of a button, and then shoves it into Chakotay’s free hand. “Turn them on,” she orders under her breath, and then stands to step over Chakotay’s outstretched legs.

“Captain,” Harry starts to protest—but Kathryn ignores him.

“There you are, Katy,” the guard in the lead says. “We were wondering where you were.” Then he takes in the scene: the blood on the ground, on Chakotay’s leg, on Kathryn’s hands. “What’s going on here?” the guard demands. He is backed by seven of his companions, all of whom had joined the first guard at least once in Kathryn’s nightly ministrations. They all are frowning and carry with them an air of anger and confusion.

“It’s nothing,” Kathryn says quickly.

“Like hell it’s nothing,” the first guard snaps. He shoves past Kathryn to stand above Chakotay, Jeremy, Harry, and Samantha. He reaches down and grabs Samantha’s left wrist, dragging her upwards. Her shirt rides up, and with a thrill of horror, Kathryn sees the pair of garden shears tucked into her waistband.

The guard sees it too. “What the hell is this?” he demands, reaching down and yanking the shears free. He drops Samantha, who cries out as her leg is jostled, and rounds on Kathryn. “What the hell is the meaning of this?” he demands again.

Kathryn is silent.

“Search them,” the guard commands his companions. “There’s something going on here…”

“Wait,” Kathryn says, stepping in front of them. “Please don’t. I take full responsibility—”

The guard slaps her, and she falls, hard. “Shut up,” he orders, and kicks her.

“Hey,” Harry shouts, and leaps to his feet. Beneath him the others stiffen, all of them—even Samantha and Chakotay—ready to leap to their captain’s defense.

“What is it you’re trying to hide?” the first guard asks Kathryn, picking herself up off of the ground.

“Nothing,” she lies, straightening. She is a full head shorter than the guard, but in that instant she seems the taller. “I just don’t want you roughing up my people.”

The first guard snorts, and motions for his companions to continue.

“Please,” Kathryn says hurriedly. “I’ll do anything you ask of me. Anything you want.” She is desperate now.

“You’re right,” the guard says with a savage grin. “You will.” He grabs Kathryn by the hair and, forcing her head back, presses his lips and tongue to her mouth in a sharp kiss.

“Bastard!” Harry cries, and before Kathryn can stop him, launches himself toward the guard still kissing her. He crashes into them both, sending all three sprawling. Harry is up and swinging before either Kathryn or the guard can regain their bearings; there is a sharp _crack_ , and the guard falls back with a howl, clutching his broken and bleeding nose.

Kathryn picks herself up slowly, shaking her head, and looks at the others. None of them have fully processed what has happened yet; five of them are standing still, dumb and in shock at Harry’s actions, while the other two stoop over Jeremy and Samantha.

“Hey now,” one of the two says, grabbing Jeremy’s right wrist and pulling his hand up, “what do you have here?”

“Fuck you,” Jeremy spits, and wrenches his hand away. The guard punches him, sudden and abrupt, and Jeremy reels. Making a grab, the guard seizes a hold of Jeremy’s wrist and pries open his fingers.

“What is this?” the guard demands, holding up the locator beacon.

Kathryn bodyslams the guard, sending him flying. She lands on top of him, and for a second they scrabble in the dirt for the beacon, fallen a few feet away from them. Kathryn’s fingers close on it, only for her head and torso to be wrenched back with a hand in her hair. She yells, both in pain and anger, and feels another set of fingers wrap around hers, forcing them open.

Suddenly, the hand in her hair is gone. Kathryn collapses forward, scalp stinging, and looks up just in time to see Jeremy deliver a solid punch to the guard above her’s jaw. He staggers, and Jeremy makes a grab for the beacon now held only loosely in his hand.

“Don’t just stand here,” the first guard—the one who had kissed Kathryn—shrieks. “Get it!”

“Get up, Captain,” Jeremy says, stooping and grabbing her right hand. Kathryn scrambles to her feet, Jeremy helping her, and turns. Harry is already locked in battle with the same guard that had pulled her hair.

Beyond him, the others have finally collected themselves. With cries they fling themselves forward, even Chakotay with his shredded leg, hard faces and hard hands reaching for Kathryn and her people.

There is a flurry of crazed chaos, of hands and feet and elbows. Kathryn ducks, dodges, punches, kicks. Dirt fills the air with a choking haze, making it hard to see friend and foe alike. One guard grabs her by the throat—she breaks his wrist. Another punches her in the face. She falls, only to rise again in time to headbutt a second guard in the stomach. He goes down, all the air knocked from his lungs.

“Stop!” The command is loud and ringing, cutting through the din of battle. “I said stop!”

Slowly, everyone stops. The dust begins to settle, making it possible to see through the haze.

“What is it?” Kathryn demands, taking a step forward. “What do you—” She freezes, her blood running cold.

The first guard stands beyond the battle, holding a knife to Samantha’s neck.

“One more move,” he says coldly, “and I slit her throat.”

“No,” Kathryn gasps, and checks herself when she makes to take a step forward. She believes the guard’s threat. “Please,” she says, this time louder. “Don’t hurt her.”

The guard grins. “You sure are the sacrificial lamb, aren’t you, _captain_?” he sneers. “Let me guess—you were going to offer yourself to me again, weren’t you.”

Kathryn swallows past the lump in her throat. That was what she had been about to do.

The guard’s grin widens into a full smile. “Don’t worry,” he says, “you and I are going to have our fun. But first, I want to know what your people are holding.”

“They’re nothing,” Kathryn says, praying that her tone is flat and even. “Baubles from home.”

“Baubles that were smuggled into the camp in someone’s leg?” The guard lets out a snort. “Take them,” he orders his companions. “And don’t,” he adds, tightening his grip on Samantha, a thin bead of blood growing beneath the knife blade, “think of trying anything.”

“Please,” Kathryn begs, taking an entreating step forward, “just hear me out.” She has no idea what to say, only knows that she has to keep the guard talking—has to keep the locator beacons in her peoples’ hands for as long as she can.

“What?” the guard asks, almost lazily. “What could you _possibly_ have to say to me that would change my mind?”

Kathryn opens her mouth, and prays for words to come. “These things—they’re a part of our religion.”

The guard arches an eyebrow, causing the ridge on his forehead to wrinkle. “They are?” he says dismissively, but the others halt their movements to listen to her.

“Without them, we won’t make it to the afterlife.” It’s bullshit, but Kathryn hopes it’s bullshit that they’ll believe. “According to our beliefs,” she adds, searching for better words, “these amulets are necessary to have in hand upon death, otherwise your soul will be trapped forever on Earth.” She fights a wince at her choice of words—these aliens don’t know what Earth is.

Laughter. “Well good,” the first guard says jovially. “Then we’ll condemn you all to purgatory! Take them.”

The familiar thrum of thrusters breaks through the clouds. Kathryn looks up, heart leaping into her mouth, and watches as a Starfleet shuttle descends over the labor camp. She turns, looks at Samantha and Harry and Jeremy and Chakotay, and smiles.

They’ll be safe.

“Kathryn!”

She looks at Chakotay. He is already dematerializing, his atoms disintegrating into the buffer matrix. He has, she guesses, realized that she does not have a locator beacon.

She smiles. It’s okay _,_ she tries to tell him. I'll be fine.

He lunges for her. She stands there, ready to face her future, ready to leave behind her past, ready to face whatever trials lay ahead—

Arms close around her, and she is flying. She feels Chakotay shove something into her hand. Then the singular swooping sensation of a transporter grabbing onto her molecules. For an instant she is suspended, caught halfway between dream and reality, midway between now and eternity—and then the world tilts on its side and reverses, and she is lying on a familiar floor and dragging in a deep breath of stale air laced with the scent of duranium.

“I got them,” Tom announces from the pilot’s seat. “I’m coming home.”

~xXx~

“Come in,” Kathryn calls at the chime of her ready room door. She turns to see Chakotay step into the room.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey,” she replies. She tugs straight the hem of her uniform jacket. It hangs loose on her, and she realizes again just how much weight she has lost in the last two weeks.

“We’re just about ready to leave,” Chakotay says. “B’Elanna is running the final diagnostics on the warp core now. Apparently the dilithium we got is purer than the dilithium we usually use. She wants to make sure there won’t be an overload.”

Kathryn nods. “Tuvok told me.”

“Good,” Chakotay says.

There is a long moment of silence in which captain and commander stand and stare at anything but each other. “Kathryn—” Chakotay begins.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Kathryn says.

“How do you even know what I was going to say?” Chakotay asks.

“I don’t, not exactly,” Kathryn admits. “But I have a pretty good idea.”

Chakotay clasps his hands behind his back, then blurts, “Where did you go every night?”

She hesitates for a second, then says softly, “I think you know.”

Chakotay swallows, and breaks eye contact with her. “Why?” he asks.

“Because Samantha needed medicine, and that was the only way we were going to get it.”

“You don’t know that,” Chakotay says.

“I do. There was no other way, Chakotay,” she says, and only once the words have left her mouth does she realize just how pleading they sound. “If there was, don’t you think I would have done it?”

Chakotay stalls, then says quietly, “I don’t know. Would you have?”

“Yes,” Kathryn says, stouter than she feels. “I would have.”

“But there wasn’t,” Chakotay says, and his words are bitter. “And so you did. It was your _duty_ after all.”

“Don’t judge me, Chakotay,” Kathryn says, and again realizes she is begging. “Please.”

Chakotay sighs. “I’m not judging you. I just...I wish there had been another way.”

“I do too,” Kathryn says. Her voice is softer than a whisper.

She looks up slowly, to find Chakotay looking at her strangely. Then, without a word, he opens his arms in silent invitation.

Kathryn does not hesitate. She crosses to him, then lets him fold her into his chest with a quiet sigh. “The nightmare is almost over,” he says, pressing the words into her hair. “We’re almost gone from this thrice-damned planet.”

“I know,” Kathryn says into his chest.

They stand there like that for a long, silent moment. Then Kathryn stiffens and pulls away. She knows that, once they leave her ready room and step back onto the bridge, the closeness they had shared in the labor camp—their bed in the bunkhouse, their hug—will be gone, and they will be back to their predetermined parameters.

“Come on, Commander,” she says, straightening and looking into his eyes. “We have a crew to get home.”

Chakotay smiles. “That we do. After you, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews are like gold: they pay me and pay you, because when I get reviews I get inspired to write more! 
> 
> Most importantly, though, I hope you enjoyed.


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